Sinnerman, Chapter One; Lions and Lambs.
Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver
Also on AO3-
Trigger Warnings: This is also - surprise surprise - another fairly slow burn story. With so many triggers and red flags I can’t even begin to tell you! I’ll tag each chapter of course. There is some language and violence and swearing in this chapter- hope y’all are ready to sin for this one... In this story there is knife play, violence, rough sex, dubcon, angst, and just a great great deal of, well, sin.
Synopsis: Prisoner!Killer!Kylo/OC AU
In which a sweet crime writer goes to question a convicted scarred murderer; what could possibly go wrong? (Oh! So many things)
He’d watched her pulse leap in her pale throat when he sat down. Watched her shrink in her seat. Saw how her pale blue eyes dilated when she saw him. He’d heard her gulp. Heard her breath hitch. That had been hard for him not to smirk wildly at. That he had such an effect upon her...
Seeing her in here after so many goddamn days and years limited purely to the bland familiar sights of fellow prison inmates and guards. Broad men of all sizes. So to suddenly walk in here, and see what little treat sat awaiting him, was like New Years Eve in Paris.
After all, he was a dangerously bored, violent sociopath.
~ ~ 🖤 ~ ~
Evelyn Winslow was the kind of woman no one ever saw.
Not that this was ever a detrimental feature. Matter of fact, she thrived happily behind this persona.
All her life she’d been the bookish one. The shy one. The bibliophile who hid herself away behind her self-constructed, unbreakable, fortress of comfort. Supported by books and her intelligence. Held up faithfully by her own proclivity to be first and foremost, who she was comfortable to be.
All for herself, and no one else. Which was just as well. She was a daughter to a single mother, and was raised by both her grandmother and mother alike. It had been many years since she’d lost her granny to cursed old age and her mother to a rotten illness.
She was entirely alone in her world. It was populated now by nothing other than her small corner of cherished hobbies, and her job to fulfil her. It kept her sane, and happy. Even if the loneliness did creep In sometimes… and she was hardly the type of girl to have legions of men fawning after her as lovers… She was a reserved, quiet person who was happy with her own set of well-loved interests.
This was obvious from the first glimpse of her.
Drab formal work-wear wrapped around her unremarkable, small, body, swathed in her trusty granny cardigan, with a patch sewn roughly over the worn elbow.
Her round, owl-like reading glasses perched happily on her pale face. Her plain hair, chestnut auburn, somewhat shiny, but somewhat straggly, was smoothed back into an artless bun at the back of her neck. Though despite her best efforts, wisps of it still managed to catch in her face, swinging in front of her glasses clad eyes and her ears.
She was perched on the edge of an unfathomably uncomfortable plastic chair. Her small form getting swallowed up into the artless frame the seat offered.
One that she couldn’t help but think didn’t mould to cradle the shape of anyone’s ass.
Her body was alight with nerves, she tried to absolve her trembling hands on the reliable paperback she’d sloped in her lap, hoping she could lose herself in the words, and they would provide her the usual succour of her favourite novel.
But the worn, water warped paper backed book did nothing to aid her. Not when she was in this place.
This great sprawling concrete building took up most of the horizon, like some ugly beast. She had hesitated getting out of the car three times before she bit the bullet and went inside.
Entering the place was a challenge in itself. Two forms of ID required, a security check, bag search and finally she was allowed inside this awful, cavernous setting.
She’d been escorted along the drab, cold halls by a broad, silent guard. The hallway she’d been led down filled full of the far off clamour of all male noise.
The musty air mingled with the stale stench of ancient sterile cleaning products that she was sure had been pasted over the peeling lino floors with a mop, in the not too distant past by some inmate.
The lumbering guard ahead of her didn’t even bat an eyelid when he led her down a walkway, high above what she could discern was a common room of sorts. Down below, she could see pool tables, and normal tables gathered in groups, surrounded by tall columns of orange clad men of all shapes and sizes mingled around them.
Heat flooded to her cheeks when came the first wolf whistle aimed up at her. She ignored the rising clamour of shouts and calls that were sent her way. Some voices more distinguishable than others- unfortunately.
Voices erupted from beside them too. They walked past rows of white barred cells.
She flinched out of her skin when one huge man thudded down from his top bunk and rattled the bars of his cell so loud it almost knocked her off her feet.
She tried to keep her eyes down as the guard had said, and not interact. But at his rough voice and even rougher words she made the mistake of flickering her eyes across to him.
“Come over here bitch, I wanna get a good look at you.” He all but spat at her. His hands braced on the bars, leaning closer.
She fixated on the scar that divided his face. The shaven crop of his hair, and the tattoos that marred his thick arms. By the time he dropped his head to clock her ass, his smile was a leer.
The guard seems to take notice of the prisoner and sends back a harsh bark of warning to him.
She found her courage, and her legs re-joined, and she moved off. Her cheeks pink, her shame broadcasting out of every pore.
Her fear and her anxiety palphable in the air. Almost as if she could reach out and touch the cloud of nerves surrounding her.
“Don’t let these scum know you’re scared. They’ll eat it up if you do.” The guard casually tossed over his shoulder as they came to another set of stairs, leading away from the commotion of the common room.
Evie frowned at his words. And gulped too.
It was obvious from the off, not as if she needed the confirmation, but it was clear this place didn’t welcome nor warm well to outsiders.
Eventually her silent bidder of doom led her to another waiting room, and told her to be patient and that the Prison shrink would be with her soon to debrief her about her visit.
So here she found herself. Jiggling with nervousness. Reeling from the rough words of the prisoner who’d gotten off from scaring her half to death. Feasting on her with no more than his eyes like she was a porterhouse steak.
Sickness and dread bubbled up in her stomach, cloying sour in her throat. She picked a stray thread off her drab grey skirt. Tucking her teal cardigan tighter around herself. She was feeling clammy and terrified. The dank air in here serving to make pimples raise on her exposed legs.
She’d taken the dress code very seriously. Her sensible grey skirt came to her knees. She wore simple kitten heels on her feet. Her white blouse and her cerulean blue wool cardigan were both buttoned modestly across her décolletage.
Nothing to invoke or enflame masculine attention. She was well versed in that rule.
Her makeup was practically non-existent. No lip colour, barely any blush. Nothing to conceal the bags under her eyes and only a sweep of mascara to darken her lashes.
She’d been scrupulous about everything. Only cursing herself when she lapsed, forgetting the dress code when she spritzed perfume on her wrists and dabbed some on her neck this morning.
Assured the guard opposite wasn’t watching, she lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled. Nothing but the scent of her washing detergent and the soft scent of her skin. She flattered herself she might get away with it…
Nervously tapping her foot, she put her ineffective novel away and reached for the file in her bag. Reacquainting herself with the contents which she was sure she knew off heart by now.
She’d read over prisoner ID 623859’s profile numerous times. She’d gone over it time and time again, hoping it would make her feel more prepared. It was an odd thing; there she was, of an evening, curled up on her sunny front porch, in the porch swing, with a glass of white wine, going over the file of this perfect stranger.
This whole man in his entirety, having been consigned to a number, and a charge sheet...
The absurdity and callous nature of it had struck her as a very cold and brutal thing. To add insult, the file had lacked a mug shot. So she couldn’t even see what he looked like.
Her boss had shrugged when she bought it up. The photo had gotten lost or dropped out at some point perhaps… did it matter? To Evie it did. They could atleast give this man the decency of being treated like a human being.
And now she was here, and it was all so real. She’d be meeting the man behind this file in a mere matter of moments.
She’d interviewed a few prisoners before, all in the line of duty for her work as a crime writer. But they’d been in on minor charges such as breaking and entering, arson, car theft or fraud.
She’d never had to sit across the interrogation table from a killer before.
Because ID 623859 was a lifer, who’d been sent down for five counts of first degree murder four years ago.
A step up from her usual inmates doing 2 – 3 years for good behaviour and the district attorney arguing for whittling their case down to community service rather than jail time.
Out of her comfort zone couldn’t even begin to describe the place she found herself in right now-
She was so idly consumed in the file, the reverberating clang of bars in front of her echoed in her bones, startling her yet again out of her daze. Looking up she met the gaze of a very run down man who tiredly called out her name in confirmation.
“Winslow?” He asked morosely.
She darted up nervously. Pushing her glasses up her nose. Tucking hair behind her ear. Her anxious tick, she’d always been told by her granny.
The laminated name badge pinned to her chest earlier clattered against her arms when she stood. She nervously shut the file and stepped towards the man. Awkwardly jerking her hand out from under the coat folded over her arm.
“Hello. Yes. Uh, you must be Doctor Finch…” She greets politely. Finch assessed her with a fatigued flick, up and down, of his eyes.
“This way..” He greeted with little enthusiasm. Encouraging her to follow. He didn’t return her handshake.
He was a short, stout man. Dressed in a drab puce green shirt, with sweat stains at his armpits, and a bland brown tie knotted around his neck like a lifeless noose.
His trousers were wrinkled and his shoes looked unloved to say the least. Even with his olive skin, his salt and pepper balding hair and baggy eyes spoke volumes of his jaded despondency with his job.
As she followed him she noted the scent of stale sweat, bad coffee and awful cheap cologne followed him as he moved. Everything about this man seemed stale.
She trailed after him obediently in silence, the only sound they made was his lolloping steps from his heavy boots, and the dainty click of her heels hitting the lino floor. It wasn’t until they got to the second door that he spoke. His voice too, was fusty.
“So. You’re here to see Ren…” He lets his question hang in the air.
“Uh. Yes.” She speaks up. “I’m from Armstrong & Lowery Publishing. I was tasked along with a few in house authors to write criminal profiles for a memoir series. Very edgy. Uh, plenty of personal insight into life after conviction...” She explained. He replied with a less than impressed grunt.
“Lucky you.” He answered drily without looking back at her.
The pit of hope in her stomach dried up. She wouldn’t be making any friends in here, that was for certain.
“Now listen…” He breathes out blearily.
“This isn’t some tame convict whose serving time for joyriding…” He begins. For the first time since they’d met, he turned to her and stared her down deep with the depths of his dark eyes.
“This criminal is a violent, dangerous, sociopath who brutally attacked and killed five men, in cold blood.” He tells her. Each word punching out his mouth with heavy gravity. She nods.
“I read his file…” She offers weakly.
He scoffs.
“Then you’ve barely scratched the surface, girly.” He tells her with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Do you always make the outside visitors your entertainment? She wonders idly.
“Truthfully. I don’t know what warnings I can give you about Ren.” He starts as he unlocks a barred door from the keys clipped to his belt which strained under the size of his rotunda belly.
“One thing I can promise you is that you sure as hell might not get much out of him. He doesn’t tend to like being interrogated by journalists. Ask the last one who came to annoy him with questions.” He chuckles.
Evie froze. He turned around and met her gaze with the threat of his morbid promise glittering in his eyes.
“What happened to the last one?” She asks in a voice that was barely audible.
“They pushed him.” He says. “Ragged on him, dug into his weak points. Delved far too deep into his personal life for his liking…” Finch tells.
“Even handcuffed to the table, he managed to reach across and break their arm in three places. And he didn’t even work up a drop of sweat as he did it.” He warns. “...And don’t go thinking provoking him is the only way to set him off either...” He starts.
“Two years ago I was performing a routine eval of him, and he lunged across that table and stabbed my own pen through my hand when I tried to get him to finally open up about his childhood.” As he spoke, he held up his right hand, and she could see the uneven bump of a small jagged scar sat on his palm.
Evie blinks. Her spine felt frozen rigid in fear. It took an enormous portion of her courage to step through the barred door he held open for her.
“If you’ve talked to other prisoners before, then you’re up on the familiar protocol… No reaching over. Don’t pass them anything except paper. Keep your hands to yourself. Dress appropriately. Don’t rile them. And when times called, times up. Visitors and Prisoners both follow the rules, that clear? You stay seated until the prisoner is escorted out by the guards… the usual fuss…” He adds.
She thinks she may have nodded in response. She isn’t entirely sure.
He walks her down another long hallway. This one was much different to the one the other guard had led her down.
There were no bars. No open communal spaces. The doors here weren’t bars, they were solid heavy metal. With tiny shuttered windows on each one. She didn’t need to be told what kind of men were kept back behind these doors.
She soldiers on. Acutely aware of the clack of her heels that rung through the hallway with each step she took. How unfamiliar a sound like that must be in this miserable, rigid institution.
“What else can you tell me about him?” She braves to ask. “Something that isn’t in his file?”
Finch sighs and goes quiet for a moment, fiddling with the keys in his hands to find the next one for the interrogation room.
“You want my honest opinion?” He speaks up. Standing stiffly and regarding her for a moment. She waits patiently for his assessment.
“He ain’t seen or talked to a woman in three years. You want the truth, I think that’s gonna have a big effect in how he reacts to you. I don’t know if it’ll necessarily help you or hurt you. You may arouse his interest, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna give you answers.” He honestly informs her.
“He’s not gonna open up to you just cause you’re a woman. He won’t see you as some compassionate, kind, caring shoulder to lean on. For all I know, you going in there to question him could be putting you in serious danger.” He tells her seriously.
No sugar coating news around here, it seemed.
That was when he stepped closer and unashamedly took a deep breath next to the air surrounding her shoulder. She shrunk back a little, perturbed.
“Forgive my asking. But did you put perfume on this morning?” He asks her in a bored monotone.
Her cheeks heat. “Habit.” She tells him, embarrassed at having been caught out. His eyes turn to points
“Next time? Don’t. He’ll pick up on that.” He tells her off sharply. She bobbles a nod once again. He turns and continues their long walk to the interrogation room.
“Now. There’ll be guards posted outside the door. And I need to mention for safety all your conversations will be recorded.” He explains the usual procedure.
“I’ll be watching the two of you from the anteroom on the video monitor. If he tries anything. We’ll be there hopefully before anything can happen. We’ve learnt the hard way to step our measures when it comes to Ren, for both inmates and visitors.” He tells her.
“I read about his… uh injury… After his sentence here…” She tells Finch. “The altercation with the other prisoner, in the yard.”
“Nastiest thing I’ve seen in a long while.” He tells her.
Back to her as he punched a key code into the panel on the wall. A harsh blare opened to cell door, showing her the rows of silver tables and fixed chairs inside.
She’d read in the file about what happened not long after he was first incarcerated. Some gang set after Ren during yard time one day, and the leader took his shiv and carved a scar down from his forehead to his shoulder. Holding him down as he did to teach the new pretty boy who was top dog.
They had swaggered off, assured they’d cemented who was the alpha. When Ren, bleeding profusely, and in probably unfathomable amounts of pain, chased the guy down, beat him half to death, buried the guys own shiv in his thigh - and bit out a chunk of the leaders face for good measure.
It took four guards to get Ren off him before he killed the fellow prisoner. guards, prisoners and visitors gave him a wide berth after that. No one dare looked in his direction if they knew what was good for them.
“Since that day he’s been in solitary cell confinement for his sentence here. Can’t trust him to be the type to get along with a bunk mate.” Finch spoke under his breath, as if he was speaking disappointedly about an errant child who didn’t gel with other people.
He’d gone through two cell mates here in his first month. Both of whom barely escaped with their lives.
He waved his arm, indicating for her to take a seat at one of the tables.
“Standard procedure. The prisoner will be escorted in shortly, Ms Winslow. Take a seat…” He tells her.
She steps past. Clutching her coat in her arms as if it could protect her. She chose the table in the far corner. And spread her folded coat across the back of the chair. Nerves squirming in her belly like some rabid, wild animal was trying to burrow into her stomach.
She tucked a strand of her hair and took a seat. The worn and scratched metal chair under her making her skin thrash coolly as she lowered down onto it. Tainting her skin with goosebumps. The hair at the back of her neck was needled straight on end with terror.
“I’ll be in the monitor room watching. Try not to let him play too many of his games with you, and remember. Don’t antagonise him… Best of luck…” Finch sniped at her before he shuffled away out of sight.
She tried not to let herself think unpleasant thoughts about the insipid, embittered man who clearly despised his job and all those involved along with it.
She fiddled with her glasses, and withdrew her notebook and pen from the confines of her bag. Nervously nibbling on her lower lip. She flexed her cold hands as she flipped to an empty page. Making last minute, nervous adjustments, fixing her badge. Making sure she was still all buttoned up, and presentable.
She nervously crossed her legs, feeling that her sheer beige tights slid smoothly along her cold, goose pimpled skin. She wiggled her chilled toes in her shoes. Shamefully aware as she drew her cardigan over her chest, that she was suddenly freezing.
For good measure, she crossed her arms over her chest and hunched down in her seat, arms under the table and awaited her fate.
The first thing she heard, was the jangle of the keys scuffing the barred doors unlocking then clanging as they were slid open.
She was beginning to understand they were the standard noise to echo and signify movement about this prison.
The sound seemed to rattle through her, ringing through her skeleton. Making more dread creep through her. She swallows, her eyes darting to the door where she could hear a few sets of footsteps shuffle and clatter along the vapid lino floor.
There was something else too, along with the heavy sets of treads, she could hear a soft clinking noise shift in the air. It took her a second to come to realise that she could hear his shackles as the prisoner was being shifted along.
Cuffed at the ankles and the wrists – for her safety. She heard a door open and close, and Finch’s bored voice rang loud through the halls. They were just metres away, beyond the barred door.
“You be nice now, Ren.” Finch warns.
The clanking stopped for a moment.
“You know I don’t play well with others.” A deep baritone answered drily. The implication in his voice was dangerous. It made her blood run cold.
Evie suddenly wanted to shrink down to about three centimetres tall. She wanted to wither away into the chair like a dried up leaf curling in on itself.
She watches Finch unlock the door and then it is filled by the three figures the other side of it.
The tall column of orange prisoner is flanked by two guards. They, frankly, looked ineffective in comparison to the figure they were there to guard.
They seem more like ineffectual support than anything. Because the solid wall of tall man in the prison jumpsuit was entirely six feet four of fury, rage and danger hemmed into an orange uniform.
He may have been the incarcerated one, but power pulsed about his figure like a far off threat. Lingering in the distance. Always there, chiming gently.
He stands a foot above the two guards, superior, and the small curl of his lips suggests he knows this.
Under an unruly mane of inky hair, his eyes look darker than black zirconia’s. The harsh light of the room they’re in reflects in a glimmer back off his black, fathomless eyes.
Lifeless eyes, like sharks eyes, she thinks… dead eyes… the knowledge he was a killer made them more chilling- Those eyes had seen men die.
He cocks his head at her through the bars and surveys her. Something dark and terrible flares through her belly.
She wants to pull up her book, shield herself. Put something, any barrier really, between her and his burning eyes that were boring holes into her like flames scorching paper.
It was like looking at something grotesque, it unsettled her down in the very marrow of her bones – but her body just wouldn’t let her look away.
She hadn’t expected to find herself so entranced with his looks. He could definitely be classified as intoxicating.
She certainly felt under the influence. He was handsome in an unbelievable and impossible way. Strong, broad features, full lips.
A clean shaven chin. Face marred by a thick, jagged track of a vivid red scar running from the top of his forehead entirely down his right cheek, slicing its scarred trail deep into his skin. It told of what made him so dangerous, so brutal. The latticework of violence on his skin written with the tip of someone else’s crude knife.
It marred well with the tattoos that she could see covered every inch of his torso. The backs of his hands, twined along his large, thick fingers. Hidden at either side of his pale neck by long strands of his hair that fell in waves to his shoulders.
Down the front of his neck, by his clavicle and the exposed top buttons of the stark orange jumpsuit. There too shadowy patterns of ink are shouting their dark tales of his life from the surface of his alabaster skin. Appropriately, She can see teeth, bones, skulls, darkness and blood.
The door is slid open and with a final, resounding thunk, this odd entourage steps into the room.
The prisoner is walked across to the table. Evie’s hand itches. She wants to do something normal. She wants to rise to her feet, greet him hello, and shake his hand as if this was a business meeting over coffee. But she can’t. She won’t.
She stays with her ass firmly placed on her seat as if it was cemented there. Her wrist twitches and she fights the proclivity to reach across for a handshake. Rule 1 of prison etiquette; Don’t reach over – keep your hands at all times, to yourself.
Instead she can only sit there, pinned, under the gaze of the gigantic man being led towards her. She felt exposed like this.
A rabbit in headlights. Vulnerable. And she wasn’t even the one in shackles here… how was it he still harnessed all the power in the room?
She was convinced he managed it by the sheer size of his body alone. He was towering to say the least. She was sure he was a good two feet taller than her.
She watched him stride across the room, with the guards shuffling him in by his sides. She saw his long, powerful legs stride him forwards as if he wasn’t even in cuffs, or in this prison at all.
She is cursed to do nothing but watch, as he is led across to her. The guards go either side as he lowers that big body of his into the seat opposite. She fears that he wouldn’t fit onto it.
But he eases down and slides his hands forwards onto the metal table top. He unfolds his legs under the table and lets them stretch out, almost hitting hers. He arcs his back and shoulders forwards in the chair and lets his forearms rest on the surface.
She jumps back, flinching in her seat when he drags his shackles harshly across the tables surfaces. The metal whining and shrieking.
Oh, she was sweet. He’d scared the poor little lamb.
She watches the guards chain his joined hands to the metal bar secured on the table top. He sits there, suave, like a king, not even acknowledging the two people securing him. His eyes remained fixed on her.
She wets her lips, and tucks her hair behind her ear. His eyes don’t miss a thing. Evie gives the po-faced guards a wobbly smile, which they do not return, before they shuffle away out of the room. Leaving her all alone to the savage mercy of Kylo Ren.
“You know the rules...” One of them warns him as they shackle his left wrist. How many more warnings was he in for?
“Is that meant for me, or her, Henderson?” He asks. Looking her right in the eye. Appealing to the guard by name.
She gulps. Again. He spots it.
“None of your trouble here with the lady. Try not to get yourself thrown in the hole for a month this time…” The Guard bays back to Ren’s snappy mouth. Their conversation ends with the harsh clang of the cell door.
“No promises…” He mutters lowly. Growling lowly at her.
Her mouth gapes lightly. And his smile curls up more in the beginnings of a smirk. She felt her bravery deflate at the fact he was staring his piercing gaze into her soul.
Yet still referred to her in the third person. As if she wasn’t in the room. As if she wasn’t even here. To him, she supposed, she was an ineffectual, annoying spec. A fly he wished to swat to death with his very large, tattooed hands.
For what feels like the first time, she lets her frightened gaze meet his. She sits up a little straighter and shuffles in her seat, her eyes switch across to the door as the guards flank it and stand silently.
Arms crossed, backs ramrod straight. Eyes daggering into Ren’s back. She timidly reaches her hand out for her notebook. Feeling a little like she was dangerously reaching her hand into a lions enclosure at the zoo.
She wets her lips. Summoning the energy to speak.
Ren feels his temper simmering under his skin already. Was the damn girl a fucking mute or what?
“Um, Thank you, for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Ren…” She begins.
He merely narrows his eyes. Otherwise silent as the grave.
“I’m missing my yard time for this. And for what? So a Librarian can ask me the same fucking questions every journalists wants to ask me?” He all but spits out.
She can tell he doesn’t really require an answer on that one.
She shuffles. Tucks her hair behind her ear again. Clearly that outburst made her uncomfortable.
“I’m not a journalist…” She corrects weakly.
His impassive, handsome, face made no move to acknowledge her smidgeon of backbone.
She looked about as robust as that godawful fraying, fuzzy, granny cardigan she was wearing. He thought about how the heft of it rudely hid her body shape from his eyes.
“My names Evie Winslow. I’m a writer, actually. I’m from a publishing house that’s very interested in your story as a lifer in here. They’re doing a series of inmates personal memoirs to publish into a volume of…”
“Writer. Journalist. What’s the difference…” He lets out under his breath to himself, unamused.
To him, they were both annoying, pushy, arrogant suits who only seemed to swan into this place to grill him with personal and infuriatingly nosy questions.
“You look like you know your way around a book. You’ve doubtless read my file judging by that manila folder sticking out your bag… You’ll know my feelings about bossy journalists asking me their annoying questions….” He warns, his voice a dark purr.
His threat hanging around in the air. As he spoke, he leaned into the table. Pinning her under that dark gaze once again.
That gaze had kept him safe being locked up in here all these years. It made sure people left him-the-fuck alone. Made sure some of the fucking scum that co-inhabited this place knew not to antagonise him.
She bites at the inside of her lower lip. Mulling over his musings.
“Writers have the luxury of imagination.” She offers simply as an answer. Again, he is silent. But she can see activity at the back of those deep dark eyes as he assesses her.
She was meek. There was no doubting that. He somehow found himself giddy at the fact that she leapt out of her skin when she slowly scraped his shackles across the table.
He’d watched her pulse leap in her pale throat when he sat down. Watched her shrink down. Seen how her pale blue eyes dilated when she saw him. He’d heard her gulp. Heard her breath hitch. That had been hard for him not to smirk wildly at. That he had such an effect.
After all, he was a dangerously bored, violent sociopath. Seeing her in here after so many goddamn day and years limited purely to the bland sights of fellow inmates and guards.
Broad men of all sizes. So to suddenly walk in here and see what sweet, shapely little treat sat awaiting him was like New Years Eve in Paris.
A writer, was all he’d been told. British too, apparently. What the fuck does some prim suited, stuck- up writer want with him?
Visitor signed in as E. Winslow. He’d expected to walk in and see some balding, academic, authorial fat old man. Not a delectable, petite, shapely, dark haired woman.
When he saw her wet her lips as she looked nervously across, he swore to god his cock leapt up to attention under his jumpsuit. He tried to discern more of her figure as he sat, but her frumpy work wear made that a challenge.
He let his mind drift a little as he was shackled in. His eyes went to her chest for only a second.
The fuzzy cardigan did well to hide her shape from him. But he could see under those drab work clothes there most likely his a fine figure.
The sight of her buttoned over cleavage and the slight hint of her pale sternum made his mouth water. Aswell as the scent of her.
Her fucking scent he could smell all the way down the corridor.
Sweet honeysuckle or some natural shit like that. Lavender. Peonies. Something other than the scent of the paltry institution detergent they washed the prison suits in.
That something other was like ambrosia nectar to him.
He thanked the stars that she’d put on perfume too. Giving him something to fucking distract him from this fucking pit if for only a damn second.
He could trace warm notes of it in the air around her. Something so bright and floral it was all he could do to concentrate on ignoring it.
He wanted to lean across and find out with his lips where abouts she sprayed on her soft, silken neck. He wanted to vice her throat in one hand, squeeze, and feel her pulse go crazy under his palm. Crushing her windpipe lightly under his violent grip.
He can’t say he was familiar with her type. She had a lot of things she tried to hide herself away in.
Her messily arranged hair, the librarian owl-like glasses, the dull blouse and the boring cardigan; it all screamed ‘safe’ at him. Polar opposite to him, he thought.
His entire demeanour was centred off the fact he never hid a thing. Of course, he tried to blend into society’s norms into what was acceptable. But that was a different thing. He was big, tall, unabashed, broad, unashamed, confident.
He brazenly wore his temper, his tattoos, his wealth, his piercings – the few he had left. She was the complete photo negative. She seemed designed to take up as little space as was possible.
Her personality spoke of her living her quiet, shy life in exactly the way she pleased. No wedding ring visible on her slim finger. From that he could discern that meant she didn’t dress up her petite frame for anyone but herself. Never stepping out of her comfort zone.
Never doing anything brazen or risky. She looked like a woman who lived well within the parameters of her cosy, cushy, ineffectual little life.
So what was this nice, educated, girl doing in a place like this? Talking to a man like him?
“Call a spade a spade. You’re here to ask me questions. No matter what job you’ve got.” He grilled with a neutral expression. Piercing right to the point.
He’d got her there.
“Well. Yes, I am…” She adds.
He made no move except to harshly exhale. She could see he was still staring her down like he wanted to cut her into strips, simply for being here.
“What more, personally, can you tell me about your conviction? What was that like?” She begins, holding her notebook open. Her pen poised to take notes.
His jaw grit. Tight.
If she thought he was going to sit here like an obedient lapdog, and answer every personal question she wanted to pry into about his own damn personal life, she could think again.
“Long and boring.” He answers stiffly.
“The trial?” She asks.
No answer comes from him.
“Read. My. File.” He answers shortly.
She blinks, her pen poised over the paper, now blotting a large, sticky ink stain on the creamy lined notebook paper.
“How was it adjusting to prison life?” She ventures. But by now she knows not to get her hopes up for an answer.
“Painful.” Comes the reply with his similar deadpan expression.
“Uh..” She stumbled, trying to find the notes. Flicking through pages and feeling her cheeks glaring red with embarrassment.
Her throat was drying up. Her hand trembling. He was so big, and just so terrifying.
The veins in his neck were starting to strain up under his skin. Pulsing with the need to keep a foothold on his patience.
“What do you want me to talk about, huh?” He asks suddenly. Bursting forwards even more in his chair.
The scraping of the shackles on the table shrieked again. Once more, she jumped at the noise, and he felt his arousal bubbling up with his rage.
“You want me to describe in vivid detail what hurting all those men felt like? How it felt when I held the knife in my hand and ran it into them. Into their skin. Into their guts. How I slit one of their throats and how it felt fucking good to watch the blood pour?” He asks with a little twitch of his head, and morbid fascination in his voice.
“And with another one…. About how I cut his femoral artery, deep, and watched him die so slowly. People don’t reckon they know how much blood is in the human body. But, ohhh, I do, Kitten. And it’s a lot. I know because I watched a man fade slowly away in a pool of his own blood. By the end he was choking on it.” He explained.
She wanted to flinch at that pet name he’d assigned her in the middle of his murderous diatribe.
“I think you do want to hear it. On some twisted level. You want people to know how it feels. That’s why people will read your fucking memoirs, baby.” He says
“They want to read about it because they will never know how it feels to be like me. To be like any of the murderers in this place. They can never know. So, they do the next best thing.” He explains.
”They come in here and they poke and prod and dissect us with psych evals and dare to call us crazy. When really, they’d do anything to know what it feels like to be a killer. To fall over that edge.”
She felt somehow both sick and feverish. Frozen.
She said nothing, but looked at him with those big, blue, innocent, scared eyes of hers. And my god, the sight of that almost served to make him rock hard under the goddamn table.
“Is that what all you and your type want to hear? I enjoyed killing them. I glad I did it. No I wouldn’t take it back if I could. I’m glad I killed them all. Yes, I do curse every day I’m trapped in this miserable rotten hellhole, being shuffled around like a caged animal. Being told when to sleep. When to piss. When to shower. I miss my freedom.
She just stares for a second. She wasn’t hard hearted enough to scoff at him in derision.
No. She was too sweet, he thought. But he could sense her disappointment at him. She chews on the inside of her lower lip again. And then he watches as she lays her pen down…
“What else do you miss most from outside this place then?” She asks after a long moment of silence.
That made him cock his head. It startled him. She’d startled him. The petite, five foot three librarian had astonished the six foot four, gigantic killer.
“What?”
She wet her lips. His big thighs tensed under the table.
“What else do you miss-“
“I heard the goddamn question. Kitten.” He growls with little patience.
Her spine tingled at his oddly soft endearment once again. He knew. Of course he knew. Those pale cheeks went pink, that’s how he knew.
She idly stroked a fingertip over the spine of her closed notebook. He watched her do it.
Her hands looked soft. When she glanced over to his, she saw they were marred with scars, calluses, and toughened skin. She wondered how soft they’d feel pressed against hers…
She’d been warned about sharing private information. Warned against sharing anything that wasn’t pertinent to her enquires as a crime writer.
But she wanted to level with this dangerous man. As she imagined no one else had ever bothered to do. They took him at face value; a killer, an ID number of six letters. A last name. And that was all.
They didn’t look beyond, however hard that may be, and however tricky Ren made it for them, to see the man underneath the prison file.
He was still a human being. Sure, a damaged one. But still-
“I’d miss my garden.” She pipes up.
She flickers her eyes up, watching him as he shifts back to relax slightly into the cold metal cradle of his chair. His wavy hair caught the light, despite what she knew would be years of lax grooming and institution shampoo used on it, it still looked silky. Falling in gentle waves around that unforgettably beautiful face.
Most inmates she knew were only allowed bar soap, basic shaving necessities, and loveless bathing products to clean with.
He looked like the kind of hardcore man who’d stuck to a strict grooming routine before he came into this place. Cut-throat razor.
The finest shaving creams and expensive balms used, to sit lingering their fine fragrance on his skin. Cologne so expensive it was like a scent of the finest luxury with every whiff.
The thought of seeing hot, steamy water run over that broad tattooed figure she knew was lurking under that jumpsuit. Trickling over those rippling muscles in his back, over his shoulder blades, down across his divinely formed- she found herself flushing with longing.
She snapped back out of her sordid daydream...
He was clearly reluctant to speak. So she continued. “My Granny left us her house in her will. After my mother passed on also, it became mine. It’s small. Full of hand me downs, antiques, and various knick-knacks. It’s a cheap, dated house now. But it’s warm. Its clean. And it’s all mine.” She tells him.
”All I have left of my family exists in that house. My little dwelling in the middle of nowhere. One of my earliest memories is planting daisies into terracotta planters with my granny. I must’ve been about, five or six. As a kid I was always outside, playing in the garden. And my mother always roped me into help...” she chuckles.
”And that’s how I came to love it, I guess. I’m at my happiest up to my elbows in dirt putting in a new bed of tulips, or tending my hydrangeas, or seeing my hard labour come to fruition when my jasmine gardenias blossom in the first week of spring. It’s a lovely thing.” She explained.
“The smell of my lilac trees on a warm summers morning coming through on the breeze from my kitchen window. That’s what I’d miss.
Unless she was very much mistaken, that was a small curl of a smile turning up the corner of his lips. Barely visible. But she knew what she saw.
“Coffee.” Was the word that surprised her when it came sailing out of his lips. A short, staccato bark, really.
She nods.
“Italian coffee. Strong. No milk. Dark as ink. A triple espresso so strong it makes your teeth ache.” He lets out. “The instant shit you get in here tastes like mud.”
“That’s good…” She smiles lightly. Tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She does that a lot, he noticed.
“I could do without being assaulted daily by Finch’s shitty cologne too. But there’s not a lot I can do to change that either.” He grumbles.
His eyes turned up to the corner to fix a dark glare into the camera that was pointed down at them. He knew the chubby man would have his arms crossed over his fat belly, watching him through the monitor. Probably picking his nose or reading a dirty magazine.
An unusual feeling spread warmth through his stomach when he saw her fight off a broad smile at that wish. She pushed her glasses back up her pixie like, upturned nose and tried her best not to laugh aloud.
“Some things are just, eternally, beyond our reach, I guess.” She mutters quietly.
”No accounting for taste.” Ren glares solidly at the camera. Making sure Finch heard it, and saw it.
“Time’s up.” Came a short outburst from the heavy set guard stood flanking the door.
Ren watched the prim Ms. Winslow turn her head, her mouth gaping as she blinked prettily at the two plodding guards who came over to release Ren’s shackles.
Once again, he watched her like a hawk, rather than paying attention to what was being done to his hands as they were jerked free of the table.
She wondered if his wrists hurt with the careless way they handled him. Tugging and pulling his hands about in the cuffs like he was a nerveless piece of meat.
She could see the raised red lines of irritation from the harsh cuffs about his pale, thick inked wrists that looked sore.
He could tell she was disappointed. She had hoped for more from him. Her boss would grill her for days about this. He already found her a thorn in his side.
Nothing she ever did was good enough. He proofed, edited and slaughtered her articles and writing proposals before he sent them to print. She didn’t like to reckon what he’d do if she’d go back tomorrow empty handed.
“Come see me again.” Came a baritone rumble from opposite the table.
“Up.” One of the guards instructed plainly. Yapping at him like a baying dog.
Evie blinked. Did he just…?
“Kitten.” He growled a crooked smirk in parting, rising to his full towering height again, eyes pinning her down again before he was tugged away.
Shackles clanking. Big broad frame filling the door as he moved through it. Out into the hall.
And she watched that tall column of orange flanked between two short navy pillars once more before he is out of her sight.
She’d never been more speechless. And somehow, oddly enthusiastic. He’d spent the first ten minutes glaring at her. Terrified her to the bone. Threatened her and made her shiver in her seat.
And still she felt motivated to come to this awful place again, merely by the way he’d growled his little pet name at her.
~
It was a few days later, and just gone past noon when a tall man strode his confident way into his corner office. His blushing blonde secretary had just handed him his schedule.
And he thanked her with a sultry wink. He hadn’t bedded this one yet. But he was going too, he could tell.
Another warning from HR about the mingling of personal and work relationships sent his way as a final warning; that he could easily ignore, just crumple and throw in the bin as he had done with the last four.
He strode into his office with all the poise of an Emperor. Surveying the expensive, sleek space he’d worked semi hard to earn.
His Brioni suit was flawless. His office was kitted out with some new, showy expensive Italian designers collection. Fresh calla lilies adorned the masterpiece of an art vase on his coffee table, and with the sun filtering through his blinded windows just right, he felt good that today was going to be glorious.
As most of his days usually were.
His coffee warming his hands, last nights lovers lipstick he was sure was still smeared its cloying kiss on his neck and his collar, and on the fly of his zipper.
And it didn’t hurt that the cute girl at Starbucks had scrawled her number onto his cup next to his name.
He hummed merrily as he crossed to his desk, just as his office phone blared to life. He slung down his cup and answered it. Checking the time on his flawless Panerai watch.
“It’s me.” A gruff greeting came, down the line.
His head shot up. He’d know the baritone match of his relatives voice any day. He smirked.
“He never calls, he never writes…” He chided with his typical grin, leaning back to perch on the edge of his desk.
“I need a favour…” He grunted.
He listened for more that was sure to follow.
“Someone came to see me recently. And I need to know who they are. What they want. I need information and you’re going to get it for me.” They instructed.
“Do you want the usual package of information or something a little…sexier?” He enquired.
“I don’t give a shit. Just come see me with what you know when you find it.”
“I might need some gentle persuading…” Came his playful answer. He didn’t. He just loved riling his twin.
They growled lowly down the other end. How long was it before he crushed the plastic handset to splinters, he wondered?
“Just do it, Ben.” Came a ferocious order. A threat. A promise. And then the line went sharply dead.
Ben Solo put the phone down, lifted his coffee to his lips, and smirked.
Today really was destined to be full of surprises after all.
~ ~ 🖤 ~ ~